


Broken Glass: Part Eleven – Broken Glass

by motsureru



Series: Broken Glass [11]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Awkwardness, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Law Enforcement, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-25
Updated: 2007-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:27:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motsureru/pseuds/motsureru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for all of Season 1. This is a continuation after Season 1, Sylar/Mohinder-centric</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Glass: Part Eleven – Broken Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to hugh for beta work!

**Teaser:** _Where Chandra had doubted him knowing the truth, Mohinder had believed in him knowing a lie._

 

.11 Broken Glass

            “You’re working on your father’s research again,” came the comment as Sylar wheeled himself past Mohinder. He wore an extra-thick sweater with his jeans and now sported a blanket over his legs and lap- consequences of the heat still not working throughout the building. The thirty degrees outside may as well have been the thirty degrees inside, were it not for a lack of wind-chill factor.

            Mohinder looked up suddenly from his laptop, blinking a few times and rubbing an eye. He checked the clock- late afternoon already. He, too, had thick socks, shoes, and a warm sweater on as guards against the cold. “…What makes you say that?” Mohinder asked warily, minimizing several of his current internet windows.

            Sylar guided his wheelchair over Chandra’s shelves, leaning back to inspect the highest book spines. “When you’re doing your research you get this really intense look in your eyes,” he stated, reaching up a hand. Like magic, a book slid from the shelves and met his palm. “You know, like the rest of the world doesn’t exist, because they can’t understand.”

            Sylar flipped through the book and then set it on his lap, crossing the room again to get to the kitchen area. Mohinder couldn’t help but smile a little to himself. “…Yes, well… I’ve seen that look in your eyes too. I look forward to the day you’re not pinning me against a wall- or ceiling- when you get it.”

            A smile spread across Sylar’s face at that, and when he wheeled himself against the refrigerator and reached to open up the freezer, he glanced back at Mohinder. “…I wasn’t going to kill you. But I don’t know what apologies would mean, now.” The man reached inside the freezer and pulled out a small tub of ice cream. A spoon made its way to him from the dish rack.

            “Apologies always mean something,” Mohinder corrected him, returning his eyes to his laptop. He was contemplating many things at the moment, his father’s research actually only the tip of the iceberg. For once, he was not the one thinking too deeply about the conversation he was having with Sylar. Sylar, however, was.

            “I- have a lot to apologize for. To you,” the man began, his chair having found its way into the room, now several feet from Mohinder’s desk. Sylar gazed at Mohinder, the touch of nervousness behind his eyes an echo of what Zane Taylor had once been. …Or was it Gabriel Gray? “I never said it, though. I never even… thanked you… for doing this for me. For not turning me in. For… _taking_ me in. You never had to.” Sylar swallowed, breathing in slowly. His eyes lowered. Was there shame behind them now? “I’m sorry. I don’t even… have an excuse. I tell you that my killing is imperative- but I never… Chandra wasn’t…”

            “Thank you,” Mohinder intervened where words could not be found. He leaned back in his chair as if the weight of Sylar’s words and the weight of his heart somehow balanced one another out. All he could do was take them for what they were. A silent moment passed between them and then finally Mohinder smiled faintly. Was this not all he could hope for out of Sylar? Finding the desire to be forgiven in a man like this… it meant that there was regret. And if Sylar could regret his actions, then there was hope that he could find a reason to live for something other than death.

            Death was where this had all begun. After hours of searching through news articles and obituaries, Mohinder had finally found Brian Davis: a mysterious unsolved murder that lead to back alleys in Brooklyn. The murder of a quiet man, a man with no enemies and nothing out of the ordinary in his boring, predictable life. His body had been found nearly six months ago, the back of his head beaten in and half of his skull removed, brain exposed for unknown reasons. A particularly brutal murder, whose details were not released until weeks of searching for clues lead to nothing. Mohinder had been pondering the few articles he found for hours. It was when he lifted his eyes to Sylar once more that it hit him.

            “I’ve been wondering something.” Mohinder broke the silence, watching Sylar spoon ice cream into his mouth from several feet away. The man looked up and arched an inquisitive eyebrow. “…Why brains? What do you do with them?”

            “…” Sylar slid the spoon slowly out of his mouth, dark eyes becoming swiftly guarded. “…I can’t tell you. Why do you ask?” Besides the obvious curiosity all of his enemies had to have, of course.

            Mohinder sucked in a breath and held it for a second. “Because… short of assuming you’re some kind of zombie, or that your spectacular cooking skills are somehow involved in what you do with the brains themselves, I’ve lost the assumption that you physically need them to do whatever you do.”

            “…And why is _that?_ ” Sylar inquired, sticking his spoon back into the tub and tilting his head a little as he stared at Mohinder.

            The scientist hesitated. He had been taking a lot of risks lately in the things he said to Sylar- why should this be any different? Deep inside Mohinder felt that if he could perhaps think of the murders scientifically- like an autopsy of greater purpose- then maybe they could seem less gruesome, less extraneous. He had to know the _reason_ for them. “Because you didn’t take Brian Davis’ brain with you. You left it behind. And yet his power is the one you’re most fond of. Which leads me to believe that my father never discovered your original power.” All the cards were on the table, now. 

            Sylar continued to gaze at Mohinder as he considered those words, or perhaps his own. Where Chandra had doubted him knowing the truth, Mohinder had believed in him knowing a lie. The chord that knowledge struck was deep and resonant.

            “Am I wrong?” Mohinder asked, probing Sylar’s silence for honesty.

            “Not at all,” Sylar replied, finally. “Congratulations on connecting the dots.”

            Mohinder felt his heart race a little at the idea. “Then what is it you do?”

            “Can’t tell you,” The man responded casually, taking up his spoon again and returning his attention to the ice cream.

            Mohinder seemed almost wounded, wind stolen from his sails. “Why not?”

            “Because,” Sylar began, looking up at the man. A serious expression fell over him. He could hear Mohinder’s heart beating even faster and faster— and then he smiled, enjoying the tease. “Because you’d never feel right about yourself if you found it out through me. You have to discover it on your own. That’s what being a scientist is all about.”

            The deflated expression on Mohinder’s face was immediate and adorably pathetic. He was sure the answer was within his grasp, on the tip of Sylar’s tongue, ready to be spoken. “But-! …My father called it a- a ‘natural intuition’ in his notes… is that what it is? Is that what you have?”

            Sylar smiled to himself and ate another spoonful of ice cream. “I’ll tell you nothing.”

            Mohinder crossed his arms over his chest and gave the man a look of stubborn frustration that could almost be called a pout. He was vexed by the thought that this man had the key to the lock that closed off the answers to his father’s work. At the same time, as utterly exasperating as Sylar could be, he had made Mohinder sure that in the end, Sylar would, in fact, _be_ the key to everything he and his father had ever worked towards. Sylar was the one he needed.

            Then something significantly less important struck him as well.

            “…Are you eating ice cream? When it’s practically thirty degrees in here?”

            Sylar looked up innocently, spoon in hand.

            A sigh sounded as Mohinder stood up. He reached over and grabbed the ice cream from Sylar as he walked by and to the kitchen. “You’re going to spoil your appetite.”

            “Wh-What? I’m the one who cooks here! You’re just mad at me because I won’t tell you what you want to know,” Sylar countered, though the anger in his voice wasn’t real at all. In truth, he was rather amused. Mohinder was mad, so Mohinder took away something he liked. It was childishly stubborn. Sylar wheeled himself into the kitchen after the man and tossed the spoon into the sink. Mohinder put away the ice cream and then moved to pull out the pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator. 

            “I am _not_ mad. Starting tomorrow I’m going to start my tests again, so be ready. Blood tests, spinal taps, EKG’s…” As Mohinder took a step back to get a glass, he was unaware of the close proximity of Sylar’s presence. His heel hit the brake of Sylar’s chair and his balance was immediately the thrown. –The first thing to go was the pitcher, with a loud **_CRASH_ ** against the kitchen floor as the glass exploded in a rush of tan-colored water.

            “ _Damn!_ ” Mohinder cursed loudly, pressing his opposite hand to his chest from the shock. On instinct, he glared down at Sylar’s chair.

            Sylar lifted his hands faultlessly in the air. “It wasn’t _me_!”

            “Don’t- Don’t sneak up on me!” Mohinder breathed out in frustration. He crossed Sylar’s path with a heavy step, reaching for a dish towel. 

            But a heavy step was exactly the wrong kind. The screech of rubber on wet tile met Sylar’s ears before it did Mohinder’s, and the world was thrown upside down for Mohinder as his body lost control over its balance for a second time. Arms flailing uselessly out to his sides, Mohinder felt the weight of his body give backwards, and, with a startled cry, he had only his physical senses in that next instant: the rush of air, the gasp of breath, his name shouted in alarm, and then finally the crunch of glass below and the uncomfortable slam of his body against something softer than tile.

            “ _Oof!_ ” His surprised gasp.

            “ _Augh...!_ ” The pained, guttural noise beneath him.

            Sylar took in a sharp hiss through his teeth as he felt the glass piercing his sweater, cold liquid soaking in faster than the warm liquid that began to bleed out. The initial strike to the floor had not been bad but the weight and force of Mohinder’s body slamming against his chest had driven what pieces had not already pierced the cloth deep into his skin.

            Blinking several times in confusion, Mohinder twisted his head around, glimpsing the cringing pain on Sylar’s face, the man’s eyes screwed shut tightly and teeth clenched. “S-Sylar…” Mohinder reached over and grabbed the refrigerator handle, pulling himself up slowly and carefully. His eyes moved down, to where the man’s legs fell to the side and twitched, bending at the knees and falling back down as his body struggled to comprehend and bear the pain. 

            The realization smacked Mohinder in the face as quickly as he’d hit the ground, eyes locked on those straining legs. Those _moving_ legs. “You **_lied_** to me!” he exclaimed in disbelief, mouth agape and unadulterated rage gathered in his voice. He scrambled to his feet. “You’ve been _lying_ this **_whole_** _time!_ You’re not even… not even…! How could you take me for such a fool?! How could I _be_ such a…” Mohinder tangled a hand into his black curls. A thousand moments over the past week or more flooded through his head, each one suddenly feeling more false than the last.

            “I LIED!” Sylar shouted back, nearly growling. He gasped in his breaths and reached for the handle as well, struggling and wracked with pain. “And I’m bleeding all over your floor too! Do you want to do something about it?!” he reached his other hand, trembling, to Mohinder.

            It got a long, hard glare before Mohinder reached his own hand down, reluctantly helping to pull Sylar up. The tinkle of glass falling to the floor sounded, and Sylar limped slightly as he stood, shaky on the legs that had gone so long without use. When Mohinder peered around at his back, he could see several large shards of the pitcher still standing out of the man’s back, considerable red stains pooling on the fabric. 

            “Go sit in the bedroom,” Mohinder hissed with a certain biting disgust to his voice. It was the disgust of betrayal for the second time, betrayal different than before. With Zane it was childish trust, but now it was the shame of a poor decision on his part that factored into Mohinder’s disappointment. And yet still, this time he felt more torn than before. Of all the things for Sylar to do when revealing his secret… it was something almost admirable.

            Without question or words, Sylar hobbled uncomfortably from the room, head hung and face distorted with pain. He did just as Mohinder asked, taking a seat on the edge of the bed and waiting. Several minutes later, Mohinder entered with a slightly calmer expression- a more stoic one- and an emergency kit and towel in hand. He sat behind Sylar and braced his hand against the man’s damp sweater.

            “How could you do this?” Mohinder’s fingers grasped a piece of glass and tore it sharply out of Sylar’s back, causing the man to bend forward and cry out in pain. “Did you think I wasn’t going to find out?” Another piece ripped out harshly. Sylar gasped unevenly. “Were you just going to kill me as I slept? Keep lying to me until I was willing to do something stupid for you?” Mohinder grabbed the last large piece and yanked.

            Sylar snarled in pain, but his words were restrained through his breaths. “I-It’s not like that… Th-the injury is all I lied about… I _swear…_ ”

            “Why should your promises mean anything to me?” Mohinder scowled. “Take off your shirt.”

            Obeying the command without complaint, Sylar cringed, feeling the glass still in his back as his shoulders flexed to remove the sweater. His pale skin was smeared with blood, several areas oozing it slowly. “It’s not like before… Mohinder… Please,” he said softer, turning his head a little to look at the man.

            “Face forward,” Mohinder ordered, pressing the towel against Sylar’s lower back and beginning to use tweezers none too gently to pry pieces of glass out of the man’s skin. “I shouldn’t believe anything you say. Why should I have mercy on you? Even now. Because you cooked for me? Kept me company? You’re still a liar and a murderer.”

            Sylar swallowed, something of offense touching him now. “You’re the only one who would have taken mercy on me. I didn’t lie to you because of that. I needed your mercy. I needed your help.”

            “What do _you_ know of mercy?” Mohinder retorted, having to pause a second to let the cloud of rage over his eyes disappear before he could continue. “None of your victims were given it, were they? When you slaughtered them.”

            “That’s not fair!” Sylar countered, shoulders tensing and causing him to grunt in pain. He clenched his fists, pressing them against the cold bed sheets. “Why should I not be human too? Why should _I_ not deserve any mercy just because I killed them! You said it yourself once- it doesn’t make me not human. A bad person, but still human.”

            “It’s different,” Mohinder said abruptly, pulling out the last shard and pressing the towel over the bloodied areas.

            Sylar shook his head, jaw clenched. “It’s not. Even Bennet, with all his high and mighty ideals on who he’s saving… He tortured me for days. I never did that to anyone! I don’t understand your concept of _mercy._ In the name of protecting someone else, he had them torture me to the point of death and he didn’t care. How can you find his murder any less wrong than mine? Just because I’m alone… because I have no one to protect… he’s a hero and I’m ruthless?”

            Mohinder pushed the cap off of the disinfectant, hesitating. He then applied it quickly and tore open several packages of gauze, beginning to tape them over the bleeding areas. “…tortured you?”

            “Drugged me. Shocked me. Stuck a probe into my brain. I play dead and he thinks ‘ _Good.’_ No, actually, he said, ‘ _If he crashes bring him back- again, and again, and again. When he dies, it’ll be on **my** terms._ ’” Sylar turned slightly, looking back at Mohinder, eyes resentful and deep. “My world isn’t black and white. Good and bad. So why is yours? It’s naïve.” Mohinder lifted a hand like he might push Sylar away, stand up and remove himself from this situation entirely. But Sylar grasped it suddenly with his nearest hand. “…Mohinder.”

            Mohinder tugged at that strong grip, looking upset that his malice had faltered. “You haven’t given me enough reasons to trust you.”

            “I didn’t catch your fall to preserve my lie,” Sylar said gravely. The tension in his features begged to be understood, begged for Mohinder to dissolve the anger behind them with the reassurances he always gave. To query the innocence hovering in the shadows that waited to be found.

            “Tell me your real name,” Mohinder replied seriously. A test of faith. A test of trust. If Sylar could not tell him this, then everything was nothing. Mohinder decided that now. He was tired of seeing Sylar differently every time through the unpredictable angles of broken glass.

            Sylar’s grip on Mohinder’s wrist softened, but he did not release it. “…It doesn’t matter anymore.”

            Mohinder persisted. “Why not?”

            “Because that man, like all the rest of them, is dead.” Sadness crept shrewdly into his eyes. Mohinder was silent. Sylar never broke their gaze in that moment. “He might be the only one that truly deserved to die.”

            “Why is that?” 

            Finally Sylar looked away. “Because he was insignificant. He was nothing. And nobody missed him.”

            Mohinder watched the way Sylar’s eyes fell into an absent, soundless despair. The way his broad shoulders curved down in some inner defeat. He understood, then.

            “Maybe you never gave anyone the chance to miss him.”

            When Sylar tilted his head back up, there was a light to his eyes. A soul in them that spoke of the life the rest of the world had never even tried to recognize. Sylar lifted his far hand and reached out to Mohinder, ignoring the slight movement away that he made. Sylar threaded those strong fingers into Mohinder’s hair, hooking his thumb around the man’s ear.

            “Someone should have told Gabriel that a long time ago,” came the hushed confession. His body then leaned forward, and, without hesitation or permission, Sylar tilted his head and stole Mohinder’s soft lips with his own.

            Upon the contact Mohinder gasped and pulled back, but Sylar’s grip on his wrist tugged him forward again and the unintentional parting of his lips was met with Sylar’s insistent ones. Sylar could hear struggle as the man’s heart began to beat wildly and he reveled in aural ecstasy of hearing the flush of blood as Mohinder’s capillaries opened and flooded his dark skin with an equally dark blush. Sylar moved his lips smoothly, and when Mohinder finally pulled back far enough for their mouths to divide, his own remained parted while their eyes met. It was Mohinder’s eyes that were wide and shocked, but both of them were speechless.

            Two knocks like gunshots riddled through Sylar’s tuned ears, causing him to startle. Both men looked sharply through the doorway and into the living room.

            “Chandra Suresh?” –asked a stern voice.


End file.
